Page 74 of Vital Signs

But I was here. Breathing. Hurting. Alive.

Another spasm, weaker now. My body was slowly winning its war.

"Stay," I said, before I could stop myself.

Something shifted in Misha's expression. Hope, maybe. "Okay."

"But don't—" I forced the words out. "Don't pretend everything's fine. It's not."

"I know." He settled into the chair, not touching. Just present. "I'm here for whatever you can give. Even if it's just anger."

I nodded. My hand moved almost without permission, reaching toward his.

He took it immediately, grip gentle but firm.

We stayed like that. Connected. Furious. Grateful. Terrified.

All of it at once.

Misha

Fluorescent lights cast shadowsbeneath Hunter's eyes. My back ached from hours in the chair, but I couldn't leave.

The tremors never stopped completely, just ebbed and flowed like tides. Sometimes they were mild enough he could speak. Other times they took over completely, his limbs jerking so violently the bed frame rattled against the wall.

"Water," he rasped around three AM, voice raw from hours of dry heaving. His lips were cracked, blood crusted at the corners.

I reached for the cup on the bedside table. "Here," I said, sliding one arm beneath Hunter's shoulders to lift him slightly. His skin burned against mine, fever-hot beneath a sweat-soaked gown.

He managed three sips before turning away. I caught a drop on his lip with my thumb. His eyes flickered open, surprised, before he pulled back.

Ten minutes later, those three sips came back up, along with bile and nothing else. I held the basin while his body convulsed. When it passed, I wiped his face, neck, and chest where the gown had fallen open.

Even like this, he was striking. I'd done this to him, and I'd do it again.

Selfish. Possessive. Wrong.

But mine.

"Don't," he muttered, trying to push my hand away, but his coordination was shot. His fingers brushed against my wrist instead, sliding down to catch against my pulse point.

I withdrew my hand. "Sorry," I said automatically, then caught myself. "No, I'm not. You need help."

His eyes met mine, bloodshot and furious and desperate all at once. "Fuck you."

"Maybe later," I replied, the quip automatic. "When you can stand up without falling over."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. Then another spasm seized him. His back arched off the bed, tendons in his neck standing out like cables. A sound escaped him, half groan, half scream, animal and raw.

I grabbed his hand without thinking, offering the only comfort I could. His fingers closed around mine, grip tightening until my bones ground together. I didn't pull away, letting him squeeze until my fingers went numb.

When it passed, his grip loosened but didn't break.

We didn't acknowledge it. We didn't let go.

Small victories.

I watched him sleep, exhaustion pulling at every muscle in my body. Three days since I'd slept properly. It had been forty-eight hours since I'd eaten a real meal. My hands shook as I brushed damp hair from his forehead. I was running on fumes and stubbornness.